


The Drop Spot Job

by Mizzy



Category: Leverage
Genre: Community: help_japan, F/M, Gen, Heist, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-05
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:45:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rats cause the crew to flee their headquarters, little do they know the biggest rat of them all is on the loose and hunting them down...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Drop Spot Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stars91](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=stars91).



> Written for stars91 for Help_Japan. She requested a Leverage case fic.

Hardison shrieked like a girl. 

It wasn’t something any of them planned to let him live down, especially when they found the culprit – a single brown rat, snuffling its way across the bathroom, hugging the bottom of Nate’s bath before disappearing into the wall.  When Eliot pointed out Nate’s bathroom was a substantial distance away from the kitchen, which was where they were standing when they heard it, they knew for sure that they would never let Hardison forget his girlish scream.

“Man, I hate rats,” was all Hardison would say when he eventually calmed down.  It was rather perplexing that he calmed down with gummi frogs and orange squeeze – both forms of pure sugar – but they decided long ago that they were criminals; it seemed rather churlish to be judgemental about each other’s bad behaviour.

(Nate privately thought it was rather hypocritical that they got at him for his alcohol and not at Hardison for his tendency to mainline sugar, but he knew saying it out loud would accomplish two things – another lecture about his alcoholism, and a Hardison determined to prove he could do his ‘thang’ without a sugar high – and both things were likely to just make him grouchy.  As usual, Nate lived things out two steps ahead in his head.  It was usually okay, because it was like living a lot of life with less of the hassle.)

They mocked Hardison for two solid days until they realized the rat thing was kind of a problem. 

(Hardison might have speeded up that group conclusion by trying to use one of Sophie’s most expensive pair of shoes to kill one of the rats.)

#

“Definitely an infestation.”

Parker was using her fake professional voice, that deeper tone she used to try and convince the public at large that she to be trusted, and definitely not insane.  The problem was that the whole group had read Nate’s IYS file on her, and they had a whole bibliography of her crazy to draw from, (not even mentioning the crazy she brought to their daily lives) and they didn’t fully trust her when she tried to sound super professional when it wasn’t locks and vaults that were the topic of conversation.

It was difficult to believe but not impossible, especially when another pink nose pushed its way out of one of the holes in between the counters.  Hardison flinched, slammed down at the rat with the copy of _Grey’s Anatomy_ Nate had lying around (the book and not the DVD series, Nate reassured Eliot when he had that squinty look on his face that was a cross between constipation and rage) and missed.  He scuffed the floor.  Nate raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’m the landlord, I can do whatever I want to the floor,” Hardison grouched, remaining crouched on the floor, text held mid-distance, ready to hit the rat if it nosed out again.

“You won’t manage that,” Parker said, pushing the panel on the wall back in place, dusting herself off with her hands.  “Splat-a-rat’s practically impossible.”

“And very easy to rig,” Sophie said.  She was perched up on a stool, pretending to look casual, but her feet were high off the ground, and her stool was pushed back from where Hardison’s rat had tried to emerge.  She was acting as if she was unbothered, but unfortunately she wasn’t pretending to be someone else, and as such the act was terrible.

“Carnival games are all rigged,” Eliot commented, expertly pinioning one rat in the tail with a fork.  They didn’t watch as he picked it up and crossed the floor to fling it out the window – he didn’t need the audience.  Eliot’s ego was big enough as it was.

“Not all of them.”  Nate grinned.  “Some of them are just balanced in favor of the carnival.  By which I mean...”  He pulled a wry face.  “Practically impossible.  Take the drop spot game.”

“The what?”  Parker was at Nate’s side almost immediately, lured by the prospect of a game, and none of them were surprised – she didn’t have much of a childhood, so even vaguely childish things drew her attention almost as well as an expensive object in a tricky vault did.

Nate patted the stool next to his in a way a father might to his young daughter.  Parker hopped on, bright eyed and intent.  Nate picked up the salt shaker and drew a circle on the counter top with a thick trail of the white grains.  Then he leaned over to pick up five circular beer coasters that Sophie had brought up in compromise to Nate’s drinking.   (When he didn’t leave circles from his glasses on every counter top and table it was easier to live in denial.)  

Nate passed the coasters to Parker.  She took them without breaking eye contact.

“Okay,” Nate said, stretching his arms and cracking his knuckles.  He looked unconcerned, but that was his default expression when he was showing off.  They all indulged him.  It wasn’t much to suffer, especially when he asked so little of them outside of their myriad jobs.  “Drop the five coasters one at a time so they cover the circle, no space showing.”

Parker exhaled through her teeth, and looked at him sideways through her fringe.  It would be disbelief from anyone else.  “I can do that,” she said, confidently.  Sophie shuffled her stool closer to watch, Eliot took a step back (because it ‘wouldn’t negatively affect his aim anyway’) and even Hardison stretched his neck to see her do it.

She nearly managed it.  Nate whistled low in the back of his throat, impressed, and picked them up carefully, not disturbing the line.

“Try again?”

Parker nodded, and tried again, and again.  On the fourth time, she squinted down at the circle.  “It’s too big,” she said, “so that’s how it’s stacked against the player?”

Nate nodded.  “Even if you place them, it’s extremely difficult.”  He carefully levered them up, and handed them over, and Parker chewed her lower lip like she was poring over a layout of a museum, and carefully placed five of the discs, just managing to cover the circle.

“So when you’re dropping them, even from such a short height, it’s practically impossible,” Sophie said, confidently finishing off Nate’s point like she was becoming more and more used to.  “But not _im_ possible.”

“And that’s how they get away with it,” Nate said. 

“Uh, guys,” Hardison said from the floor, nervously.

“Sometimes, though, they’ll outright cheat,” Nate explained, everyone’s attention on him as he picked up the coasters.

Everyone except Hardison.  “Guys?” 

“They can stretch the spot so it’s even bigger.  Or they can offer a new game—“

“I’m not going to shout like a girl again to get your attention, guys, but SERIOUSLY, this is something you’re going to want to see,” Hardison said, walking backwards past them.

Parker was the first to see it, connecting his paranoid method of holding his textbook to the direction of his gaze. “Holy crap, it’s like the whole of Hamelin in one room,” she said, and even Nate went a bit pale at the number of rats piling out of the counter.

“Uh,” Nate said, somewhat strangled, “let’s lock up and call pest control.”  Hardison grinned.  Nate looked at him sideways.  “That would be your job as my landlord,” Nate told Hardison, hiding a grin as he swept past Hardison out of the apartment.

Hardison’s smile faded.  Eliot grinned and thumped his arm and they quickly trooped out of the apartment.

#

Nate, predictably worried about his ‘fix’, double checked with the bartender on duty at McRory’s, warning about the problem above, and the tender immediately organized someone to come and check the premises and promised to call in pest control for Nate’s apartment for them.

It was only when they were stood outside when they realized the rats had flustered them to the point that they hadn’t even considered where they were going to go.  Parker wanted to steal a whole hotel, which sounded quite alluring an idea (hey, everyone had to have a hobby, even them), and Hardison offered his flat, which apparently Eliot had been to before, because he started bitching about the ‘weird ass smell’ immediately.  Eliot insisted Nate probably had a back up apartment somewhere, because he wasn’t stupid, and Nate instantly deflected onto Sophie, because he clearly did but he sucked at lying so that was the only technique he could use.  Sophie was about to use the argument that Nate was only interested in snooping around her underwear drawer (it was a low blow but she hadn’t cleaned her apartment and she was kind of ashamed at the mess it was in) when her phone went and their whole lives changed in a moment.

Parker, Eliot and Hardison bickered while Sophie took the call, and Nate went quiet, that curious quiet which meant he was up to something, or his brain was working overdrive figuring out some clue which none of them had even noticed.

Even the trio stopped bickering when Sophie got sort of breathless and loud.  “Really?  No, of course, I can be at the airport in the next hour, definitely.  Of course I’d be perfect for the role, I completely agree, I can’t believe—Yes, yes, she definitely has a secret child hiding in the Andes, I completely#  My agent, uh, sure, he takes 15%-  Yes, yes. See you then.”

They all knew what Sophie looked like when she was happy, but the way she looked as her trembling fingers hit disconnect was way beyond that.  Her eyes were shining more than when she (tried to) perform Shakespeare on stage, and it took a moment for the words to form in her mouth properly.  “That was Jonathan Frakes.  He wants me in his TV show.”

“Jonathan ‘Riker from Star Trek Next Gen’ Frakes knows your number?” Hardison demanded.

“All the big producers do, I send them scantily clad models wearing nothing but a bikini and my business card,” Sophie said, waving her hand like it wasn’t important.  “Guys, do you understand what this means for me?”  She twirled dramatically, as if looking out at the horizon, even though she was in reality staring down a block of dense buildings.  “I’m going to Hollywood.”

“Frakes directs TV shows in Vancouver most of the time,” Hardison said.

“Hollywood, Vancouver, semantics,” Sophie said dramatically.  She turned and looked at Nate speculatively.  He held up his hands.

“I am not pretending to be your agent,” he said.

“ _Please_ Nate.”

“How do you do that?” Parker demanded of Nate.  Nate shrugged at her.

“I never ask you for anything,” Sophie wheedled, moving as if to slip her arm in his. 

“Usually because he knows what you’re about to ask before you actually have to say it,” Parker pointed out, giving time for Nate to back up and move out of contact range with Sophie, which was a smart move – they all had seen her sell things, and body contact was her strongest weapon along with her language.

 “Come on, Nate,” Sophie said.  “This is my dream.  It’s just for a couple of days.  One thing on my showreel.”  Sophie stepped closer to Nate, eyes serious, her ‘I mean business’ tone in full flare.  “You’re the one who came into my life detracting me from my path as an honest citizen.  All I ever wanted was a genuine credit on IMDb.  _You’re_ the one who pushed in and pulled me in a different direction.  You. Owe. Me.”

“She’s kind of got you on that one,” Eliot said.

“You just pretend to be my agent and I’ll let you have your 5% fee,” Sophie tried.

“I heard you say 15%,” Nate said automatically, without even saying he had agreed to go – he didn’t have to.  Even Nate lost battles when it was against Sophie.

“C’mon, we can drop you both at the airport,” Hardison said, jerking his head in the direction of Lucille 3.0. He pushed open the door, and his face screwed up.  “Aw, hell no.”  He turned his face, still arranged to resemble a prune, to Eliot.  “What have I told you about changing the seats in Lucille to suit your short ass legs? I’ve got beansprout legs, man, I’m a beanpole, not a raging midget like you-“

“What the hell are you talking about?” Eliot demanded.  “I haven’t touched your ‘baby’ since you got the damned thing, all up in its grill, purring like a kitty on heat, it’s unnatural.  I didn’t want to touch anything you’ve probably wasted an hour humping.”

“So instead of manning up and accepting responsibility for fudging with my seats, you insult me. I see how it is.”

“Man, I haven’t touched the damn thing!”

“Baby, cover your ears-“  Hardison clamped a hand around one of the wing mirrors, “he don’t mean it.  You’re not damned.”

“Talking to it like it’s a person, you’re wrong in the head-“

“Why, I-“ Hardison started, making the fatal error of stepping into Eliot’s space.  Eliot’s ears turned red and he was two seconds away from making Hardison into a kebab.

“CHILDREN.”

Eliot and Hardison turned to Parker in unison, matching incredulous expressions on their faces.

“Pot, kettle, black,” Hardison muttered.

“She has a point,” Nate said, patting the van.  “Can we get a move on before Sophie’s head explodes?”

They all turned in unison.  Sophie threw a disgusted look in Nate’s direction.

Hardison sighed, and pushed the keys into Eliot’s chest.  “You drive.  She’s set up for you.”

“Whatever.”

No one thought anything of it until they got to Ted William’s tunnel and the guy waved them through without them having to stop to pay a toll.  There was hardly any traffic, which was a little weird.  Nate thought something of it, but even his thoughts were curtailed when a white van forced them to turn sharply into the second lane, at the moment the lights in the tunnel dipped to their lowest.

And something collided with the front of the van.

They pulled over as far as possible, Eliot jamming on the emergency light, all of them hurrying out of the van automatically, Parker and Sophie hiding their faces in their clothing from the awful smell of car emissions, to find out that they’d run into something.

Nate dodged over and dropped to his knees to find out what it was they hit.  The others stared down at his back for a long minute.  When Nate turned his face back, they knew something was wrong.  Even though there was little light in the tunnel, there was enough from Lucille’s headlights to see that Nate’s face had lost a lot of color.

Eliot moved forwards before they could stop him, and Nate couldn’t disguise the bundle on the floor in time.  The other three couldn’t see his face, but they saw Nate’s, and that was enough to know Eliot’s expression wasn’t anywhere near constipation or rage.

If the unguarded expression that flittered over Nate’s face for a second before Nate schooled his expression into something impassive was even a tiny reflection of Eliot’s, then Eliot’s expression could only be described in one word: heartbroken.

“It’s-“  Eliot started to speak, a stutter of a sound coming out, muffled by the occasional car speeding past and ignoring them.  “Nate-“

“There’s nothing we could have done,” Nate said, harsh, and that’s when the other three caught sight of the small face belonging to the bundle on the floor.

The child couldn’t have been any older than eight.

Parker buried her head in Hardison’s shoulder, muffling a cry of horror in the hooded sweatshirt he wore, but the thin whine echoed out regardless.

“There’s nothing you could have done,” Nate said, harshly, getting to his feet and boring his gaze into Eliot’s.  “The last thing we need is you locked up for something we couldn’t help.  We need you.  There’s no need having hundreds of our clients suffer for this.  Eliot.  _Eliot."_

“Agreed,” Sophie said, pushing the van door open again.  “Hardison, Parker, get in.”  They stared at her blankly.  “I said _get in_.”

They blinked in unison and did as she suggested.

“Eliot, you too,” Sophie said, one hand pushed against the open door.

“No, I-“  Eliot’s eyes were wild, wide.  “No way, man, I-“

“Get in the van _now_.”  Nate didn’t yell, but he didn’t need to – he was the master of unstated caps lock when not under the influence.  Eliot was in obvious shock - there was no other way or situation he would have let Nate manhandle him around, and Nate took full advantage of it.  Sophie gunned the engine and with the tension behind them as thick as tar, they drove away.

#

“This is wrong, this is so wrong, we should be back there, we should be doing _something_.”  Parker stalked back and forth behind Lucille, her thin shoulders tense, her ‘don’t touch me’ vibes on red alert.  Hardison watched her, worried.

“There’s nothing we could have done,” Hardison repeated.  It was swiftly becoming a mantra between them.  He looked over his shoulder.  Eliot was slumped against the van, with Sophie and Nate in quiet consultation, whispering little secrets or maybe doing that weird flirting dance they did.  Hardison didn’t care.  All he could think of was the small face in Nate’s arms, and the thump of the van, and the overriding thought – he should have been the one driving.

But then he thought of the darkness, and the way the van had forced them over, and the timing of it all, and thought sickly that it could have been him that hit the child.  It should have been. 

Now Sophie was giving Eliot some kind of a pep talk, and Nate was doing something around the front of the van, something yellow in his hand.  Hardison could smell the faint scent of bleach.  It made sense.  Wipe away any traces of the accident like it didn’t happen.  He had already hacked into the security cameras in the tunnel and erased the footage for the whole day – the most subtle he could be when on a smart phone barely picking up a signal.

Sophie had put on an accent on when they pulled up in the airport car park and told the police about the body of the child.  It was probably already in Hardison’s RSS news feeds, the body being discovered.  They were going to call it a Hit and Run, which is the truth.  It was what had happened.  They hit the child and ran away, like they were escaping from a regular con.  Except in their cons, no one usually got hurt.

“Okay, here’s the plan.”  Nate didn’t even bother with any type of small talk.  They were all grateful for it.  He deposited the bleach bottle back into the van.  “Sophie’s going to go to her film gig-“

“Nate,” Sophie said, in a soft chiding tone.

“There’s no reason we shouldn’t continue as normal,” Nate said.  “Sophie and I are going to Vancouver.  We’ll contact you when we land.  Parker, Hardison, take Eliot to the hotel, steal a suite that’s got a good escape route.”

“That’s it?  That’s the whole plan?”  Hardison stared.  “Nate, that’s not a plan, that’s denial.”

Nate leaned in close to Hardison, his too-calm eyes locked on Hardison’s face.  “Keep Eliot safe when we’re gone.”

Hardison nodded, his throat dry, and he and Parker could only stare as Nate pulled out his and Sophie’s bag and headed off over to the airport building, like nothing was wrong.

#

They stole the whole fourth floor of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, just because they could and Nate wasn’t there to reel them back.  Neither Parker, Hardison nor Eliot said it – that Nate’s last few decisions had seemed a little, well, insane.  But they were conditioned to trust Nate and follow his orders automatically by now, and that was something Hardison vowed was really going to have to change in the near future.

Except that seething resentment was probably what ruined everything. 

That and the news report that followed the one on the dead body discovered in the tunnel, of the new security system being trialled in the Museum of Fine Arts.

Parker had been looking smaller and smaller since the incident, so the security system was absolutely perfect as a distraction.  Eliot said he wanted some time to himself, which they both definitely understood, so they left him in the hotel and went to scope out the new place.  Parker drew blueprints all over her napkins when she insisted they got dinner at Subway’s (she was a cheap date – Hardison didn’t say it out loud because he didn’t want to say the word date out loud and break the spell) and she at least had the slight bit of color in her skin back again by the time they got back to the hotel, the probably very inevitable thing had happened.

Eliot was gone.

#

To be fair, they were only 40% of a functioning crew, so it made sense when they were able to come up with 40% of a plan, but neither of them were surprised when what was evidently missing from the plan was, well, really not so much of a plan at all.  Parker and Hardison had been able to work on their own, hadn’t known any other way, but that was all a long time ago, and their apparent inability to do the same now had obviously crept up on them more silently than even Parker could.

“I’m just-“  Parker prodded the print out of the police headquarters dolefully, trying to put everything they were feeling into words, “used to _taking_ things, not being the one to _lose_ them.”

Even though Eliot was hardly a _thing_ , Hardison agreed it was a pretty good summary of the situation, considering the source.

“We can’t just _sit_ here,” Hardison said out loud, drumming his fingers on the side table they had spread their plan fragments over.

Parker stood up.

Hardison pulled a face at her that she didn’t notice.  “That’s not what I meant.”

“I didn’t misinterpret you.“  Parker pulled a face at him that he couldn’t miss.  “I was pretending to be Nate and do a dramatic bodily gesture before saying something immensely powerful.  You’ve said it yourself before.”

“I have?  What did I say?"

“That we have to think like other people sometimes.  So we’ve got to think like Sophie and Nate and Eliot.”  Parker looked down at him.   “You’re going to have to do the thinking like Nate stuff.  I’m not creepy enough.”

Hardison looked at his laptop screen, and frowned.  “If we go in at 7pm, in between shifts, there’s only one security cop on detail.  Cops do love coffee and donuts.”  He looked up, unsure until he saw the growing grin on Parker’s face.

“You do look good in uniform,” Parker said, catching onto the plan as quickly as he knew she would.

“Right,” Hardison said, because his other reaction to her words wasn’t anywhere near graceful, and he grinned.  “Let’s go steal us an El-“  He stopped, and stared at the RSS feed cycling in the lower corner of his netbook screen.

“Why did you stop?  You were doing a passable Nate,” Parker said.  “Although you should try and rumble more, his voice is a little deeper than yours.”  She punched him companionably in the shoulder, as if it would man him up a little.  Hardison refrained from letting her know it _really freaking hurt_.

“My voice is manly enough,” Hardison said.  “Manly enough to mimic Nate.  Not manly enough to plan something of the kind of league we need.”

“What do you mean?  What league are you talking about?”

“The kind of league where we’re screwed backwards and forwards without any kind of preparation beforehand,” Hardison said, and spun the screen to face her.

Parker was beautiful in any kind of situation.  Hardison had observed this during a thousand different situations, and a thousand different kind of emotions, and each time, she had been nothing but beautiful.  He had never been able to see her completely horror struck until now.  He would have been happy just _assuming_ she would still look beautiful in that scenario of being utterly terrified. 

He did not have that luxury and now he knew for certain.  He looked up at her face, the soft curves of her face reflecting the bare white and black color scheme of his desktop, and fought to swallow the terror climbing up in his throat.  He couldn’t speak.

Parker managed it for him, and even her voice was strangled.  “Moreau.”  She leaned closer to the skin.  “The report just says he’s out of San Lorenzo.  This doesn’t change anything.”

“Parker,” Hardison said, forcing himself to speak when every impulse was telling him to take Parker and run, as fast he can, take her and hide somewhere Moreau would never find them.  “This guy is a violent megalomaniac who very probably wants us all dead in a painful and disfiguring manner.”

“And you don’t think this is all odd?  This happening to Eliot _the same day_ as news leaks out Moreau’s out?” Parker stares down at him, her horror replaced by bravery, and yes, she was still beautiful, and Hardison couldn’t look away.  “Look, this sort of thing isn’t my forte, but I know the best time to strike at a security system can be the day it’s installed before they’ve figured out the kinks and the bugs.  And sometimes you have to steal something the day it’s stolen or you don’t get it back.”

“I’m too dazed to follow you completely,” Hardison said.  Parker patted him on the head.

“The plan hasn’t changed,” she said.  “Let’s go steal us-“  Parker stopped, frowning.  “My voice is nowhere near as rumbly as Nate’s either.”

“That’s so, so weird,” Hardison said, closing the lid of his netbook and following her, keeping as straight a face as possible.  The alternative was probably screaming anyway, and he doubted Parker – or the hotel staff – would quite appreciate it.

#

Hardison was nervous all the way through planning the con, and walking to the station (the idea of using the van that hid the child earlier was one that freaked both him and Parker out, and Hardison was glad it was mutual, he didn’t want to have to say that sort of thing out loud) but as usual, once the heist officially ‘launched’ (Parker’s word for it – her vocabulary did seem to include a lot of jumping and falling and diving terms) the adrenaline kicked up and he was totally in the head zone.

He lounged in the waiting room, casually scoping out the timetable of the cops on duty (why they thought it was secure to have rosters on a whiteboard which anyone with a decent reflective sneakoscope camera could see was beyond him) and then hacking into the local network to get a visual identification of the cop on duty in the time window they needed.   Hardison grinned, texted the image over to Parker, and she winked at him and went into motion.  The sedative in the donuts she carried were just powerful enough to hopefully make the guy think he had just fallen asleep.  A burly cop took two as she sauntered past, and Parker just grinned. The expression on her face as she turned to wink at Hardison made it clear the guy deserved the hangover he’d wake up with.

Parker dropped the right guy a donut, and Hardison pretended to be absorbed in his netbook, secretly using the webcam to observe him.  He resisted the urge to pump the air with his fist when the cop obliviously ate it.  The time delay on the type of sedative they used should mean their plan was going correctly to schedule.  Which, naturally, worried Hardison.  He hoped it was because he was just that much better at planning than Nate was, but a nervous voice inside pointed out that when things went to schedule, it was usually a bad sign.

Except, maybe he really was just that good.  Because half an hour later, seconds after the main shift had left the building, Parker joined him outside at the rear of the building, casually showing Hardison a red lipstick and pushing it into a pocket.

Hardison stared at her.  “What was that?”

Parker smirked.  Then there was a little bit of screaming from inside, and she raised a single eyebrow.

“Ahhhh,” Hardison said.  “I used to use that trick for getting out of school.”

“Fake measles,” Parker said.  “My favourite kind of panic.  He slept right through me dotting him up.”  She grinned.  “Come on, he should have panicked himself into a lockable bathroom by now.”

Hardison nodded and started to follow her.  Parker froze partway through the door.

“You really do look good in uniform,” she said. 

Hardison swallowed, and followed her.  If he was a couple of seconds later than he should have been, Parker didn’t say anything.

#

Eliot Spencer was a straightforward kind of guy.  Once upon a time he fell in with a bad crowd, did some blisteringly bad things he really wanted to forget that could never be forgiven, and now he was spending his time repenting, trying to make up for an unfixable deed.  That was it.  Simple.  If he spent all his years trying to fix that worst of deeds by doing helpful things, then maybe he might repay the debt a tiny amount.

Today had wiped out all possibility of his good deeds even being able to make that tiny dent in his sins.  Today had stolen that chance away from him, and revealed to the world what Eliot Spencer really was, deep down at heart.

A monster.

Eliot hadn’t kicked up one iota of fuss since turning himself in.  He’d walked himself into the cell and put on his own hand restraints when one of the guys linked his face with his tremulous past.    A couple of the cops kicked him around anyway even though he was being compliant.  Eliot didn’t protest.  He didn’t take them apart with his hands tied behind his back, even though he could. 

He deserved this.  He deserved a thousand times worse than this.  This was getting off lightly.  He contemplated making an escape for a single minute, but only so he could go to somewhere like Somalia and get arrested there.  Sometimes they just buried people alive.  Sometimes they made the prisoner bury themselves alive.  Eliot could almost hear it, the scrape of a spade along a wall, of fingers grasping against the wooden handle-

But no, wait, he couldn’t hear it in his imagination, he could hear it in real life.  Someone was at his door, and the touch was too quiet, too soft to be a cop.  Another scrape, and he knew – Parker’s fingers made a very distinctive sound when they came near a lock.

He was at the door in a flash, pushing up to the grill.  “Parker, what the hell-“

The grill slid open, and one of Parker’s eyeballs pushed up to the slots.  “Oh, hey there.  I didn’t see you.”

Eliot growled under his breath at her flippancy.  “The hell are you doing here, Parker?  It should be pretty obvious what I’m doing.  Even if you get me out, I’m not going with you.”

“I know,” Parker said.  “I’m not here for that.”

Eliot pulled a face.  “Huh?”

“I-“ Parker said, and then inhaled, and then made a low whine in the back of her throat that made every hair on Eliot’s arm and neck stand up.  He had never heard her make that sound, but he had heard plenty of young woman in fear, and that sound was _it_. 

“Parker!” 

There was a clanging sound, then a shuffle, and the sound of pattering feet receding, and a far of window opening, and then another person moving, well tailored shoes from the sound of it, clacking against the smooth tiles of the jail corridor, moving in rhythm, supported by two other guys at least walking in pace, heavy set guys by the sound of it, and Eliot clocked the click of a handgun, maybe a Beretta—

Then he heard an inhale, soft, through someone’s teeth, and he stopped trying to catalogue the sounds, because he knew who it was.

“Looks like your escape route just... exited via your only escape route.”

Moreau’s voice.  The soundtrack to Eliot’s nightmares.  The glee was tangible, and despite the self loathing coursing through Eliot’s brain like a low drum beat, the loathing for Moreau still had room to curdle in his stomach.

“I told you once upon a time, Eliot Spencer.  No one leaves me.  I leave them.  You broke the rules, and you know the price.  And you took up with a fool.  You know the punishment.”

Eliot turned his head away, knowing Moreau’s face well enough, knowing he’d be pressed up against the door grill, enjoying his shame.  _Let him_ , Eliot thought.  _It doesn’t matter.  This shame is mine alone._

“It’s so fantastic seeing you suffer like this, all noble, like you’re something that matters.  Like you’re not something that crawled out of the sewers.  You used to think I was the reason why you did all those things for me, those terrible things in my name.  It’s not true, Eliot.  I just fostered them, nurtured them.  You didn’t need me to bring the darkness out in you.  And look, there I am, a million miles away, and look what you’ve done.  Alone.”

Moreau loved to do this – find someone he want to hurt, and push them into captivity, and if they were already locked away, then he would gloat, and gloat, and gloat.  Breaking someone’s body was never enough – breaking someone’s spirit was key.  What Moreau didn’t know was that Eliot’s spirit was already broken.  Eliot almost laughed giddily at the idea of it.  Moreau was just wasting his breath heating air. 

 _“Sir, the next shift are due in a minute_.”

Moreau’s guard’s _sotto voce_ wasn’t as soft as it needed to be.  Eliot grinned, and he pretended he could see Moreau’s expression of annoyance – Moreau loved dramatics almost as much as Nate did, and wouldn’t be best pleased at having his gloating to Eliot cut short.

“Enjoy what’s left of your life,” Moreau snarled.  “As you tried to do to me, I will make sure is done to you.”

The grid slid shut, and Moreau’s footsteps receded.  Eliot could almost hear him muttering under his breath to the incompetency of the guards following him.  It must mean Moreau was using unfamiliar men.  Must have been how he got out of San Lorenzo and into the country without any of Hardison’s red flags going up.

Eliot’s eyes flickered back to the grill, because even though Moreau had slammed it shut he could have sworn he saw the whites of Moreau’s eyes again, but it was nothing – just a small piece of paper.

Which hadn’t been there before.  _Huh._

Even though every instinct inside of Eliot in mourning for what he had done to the poor, defenceless child in the tunnel wanted him to curl up in a ball and hide in the corner until they threw him in the dankest prison the East Coast had to offer, he got to his feet.  Curiosity was obviously a stronger emotion than guilt.  Eliot could only find comfort in that fact because curiosity killed a cat once, or so the proverb went, and Eliot was as quiet as a cat, and perhaps death really was what he deserved.

#

 _Dear diary.  Today is a good day.  The best of days.  With Spencer where he needs to be, crippled by grief, no one can stop me.  Ford and his whole team will fall like dominoes_.

The diary entry Damien Moreau was composing in his head was brilliant.  He rather thought he might start a blog.  Yes, a blog was the key to this world they called online.  He was getting too much of a master of the real world and he needed a new challenge, and maybe cyberspace could be that challenge.

Moreau pulled at the door of the mini fridge in his limo, and smiled at the contents, the chocolate and the champagne and the sandwiches.  He’d craved bread like nobody’s business while stuck in San Lorenzo, that wretched tiny excuse of a country.  The only thing he craved more was the silky, satiny feel of the blood of his enemies.  Spencer was down, and it was only a matter of time before the others fell, just as he had planned.

The limo juddered to a halt.  Moreau cursed in his native language under his breath, the syllables breathy and cutting, and he looked up sourly.  He’d had to employ all new staff to avoid hitting any of Ford’s warning signs, and some of them were entirely useless.  He looked up at the driver’s mirror, ready to fling some curses at his driver, knowing he should have chosen better than some white, balding Polish guy—

Except, chocolate brown eyes and a knowing expression in the mirror was what he received, instead of the doughy weak expression he was expecting.  Moreau was good with faces, and so instantly knew what the right reaction to be was – panic, escape.   The fake limo driver was Ford’s hacker, and he was weak, so if Moreau could get to him, he could overpower him.  Moreau might use heavy hitters (and oh, how he regretted sending them away right now) but he had become strong with his own power, and he still had it. The hacker would regret ever standing in his path.

“Oh, it’s okay, I know the second you reach me I’m unconscious, dude, I am fully aware.”  The hacker’s voice was slow and measured through the intercom.  _You will not be so calm when I’m through with you_ , Moreau thought, seething, as he fought to break the lock on the car.  “That’s why I’m utilising the most reliable of back up plans.  I’m running. ”  The hacker opened the front door and disappeared from Moreau’s sight.  And then reappeared.  “Good luck with getting rid of the drugs in the front locked compartment.”

“It doesn’t matter what you try and do to me,” Moreau said, grinning widely even though what he really wanted to do was lock his hands around the hacker’s scrawny neck and squeeze.  “Your hitter friend is already dead.”

The hacker’s eyes turned stone flint cold.  “The cops are on their way as we speak,” he said, but he sounded bitterly disappointed, and Moreau took the win.

Then he spluttered for an ungainly few seconds, and then reoriented himself.  He was wasting time.  The little brat thought he could outsmart him, and he would pay.  Later.  Right now, Moreau had to get out.  He jerked open the fridge and pulled out the champagne.  It was very expensive, and might, with enough force, be enough to shatter the window.

It took a couple of goes, but he managed it.  Moreau flung himself into the front seat of the limo straight away, his fingers fumbling with the compartment almost as soon as he hit the seat.  He could hear the faint strain of the police siren in the distance.  They weren’t far away.  He searched around, and grinned – the idiot hacker hadn’t noticed the pair of pliers on the floor?  He must be a _moron_.  Moreau grabbed the pliers and forced open the compartment.  A rather hefty bag of what looked like cocaine was in there.  Moreau grabbed it and flung it into the bushes on the side of the road as hard as he could, and grinned.  Underneath the drugs was the original limo driver’s papers.  He grabbed the photo ID, and straightened up, and tried the keys in the ignition.  They failed.  What had the hacker done now?  Moreau fumbled under the steering wheel, and found a cut wire.  He resisted the urge to smack his head against the steering wheel as the first cop car (another one was still humming its siren call in the distance) pulled up across from him.  It was too late to get away.

“Stay in the vehicle!”

Moreau grinned his most charming smile as the cops sauntered closer, and he put his hands in the air.   “You’re not going to find anything out of the ordinary but a broken window,” he said.

“Round to the back,” one of the guys said to a third, who nodded.

“To the back?” Moreau tried to turn his head, but one of the cops trained his gun more tightly on Moreau’s face, and he froze.

“The tip off was right.  There’s a guy tied up back here,” the third cop called.  "He's got lipstick marks all over his naked body from head to toe, sir."

Moreau blinked as the first cop with the gun trained on him raised one eyebrow.

“Oh yeah, we’re not going to find _anything_ out of the ordinary,” Cop Number One said.  “Would you like to explain yourself?”

Moreau stared back at the cop, nonplussed.  “I would if I could.”

Moreau hated the American judicial system almost as much as he hated the San Lorenzo justice system.  That was in the area of _amazing amounts_.  Still, whatever Ford’s stupid team thought it was up to, the whole thing had an amusing side effect.  Every other free cell in the jail had something wrong with the plumbing, so the cell he ended up in was right next door... to Eliot Spencer.

Life had a glorious, glorious sense of humor. 

He hadn’t expected ringside seats to Eliot’s execution, but by hell, he was going to enjoy it.  It was actually the perfect alibi.  Moreau wanted to laugh out loud, especially when he heard a local church bell chime – ten o’ clock.  The exact time he had ordered Eliot’s execution.

The faint sounds of the team he had paid to come and take Spencer out hit like clockwork, and their methods were almost like music to Moreau’s ears, the hiss of a smoke bomb here, a kicked down door there, a click of an old time rifle and the soothing sound of army regulation boots.  It was a symphony of a retribution.

The boots sounded louder, closer, and Spencer hissed, “What was that?” and his desperate question was like the best kind of crescendo.

Except it wasn’t Spencer’s door the guys opened.

Moreau stared in confusion at the seven masked men in his cell, and the seven rifles pointed at his chest.  He had specifically ordered the weapons himself, to make it look like some angry parent vigilante had done the deed.

"We're here for Eliot Spencer, on behalf of Damien Moreau," the guy on the far right said, the exact words Moreau had put on the kill order.  He had wanted Eliot to know who was killing him.

“What?”  Moreau spluttered.  “I’m not Eliot Spencer.”

“They all say that,” the guy at the front said, his voice low and rumbling.  Moreau saw the flash of the guy’s finger moving on the trigger, and then he saw nothing else.

# 

Eliot Spencer knew the second the boots hit the floor that the people infiltrating the building were not a termination team, but he could almost hear Moreau gloating through the wall, and his stomach felt a bit odd.  It was always disconcerting to have a hit put out on you, even if this one hadn’t gone exactly the way Moreau intended.

He wasn’t surprised when Parker showed up at his door again.  “The crew Moreau hired to kill you are gone now.  Come on!” she said.  Eliot shook his head.  Moreau’s accidental and fantastic basically-self-execution was amazing, but it didn’t change the truth – he had hit a child and driven away.  He was disgusting.  He was lowest of the low.  He was-

“Thinking so loud even my brain hurts,” a quiet voice broke in which Eliot definitely recognised.  Nate’s voice was an extremely distinctive sound.

The door swung open.  The four of his team were stood there.

“You didn’t kill anyone,” Sophie said, her voice full of warmth and compassion, and even though she was the cleverest liar in the whole world and probably the best Grifter Eliot had ever encountered (he had long ago vowed to never tell her that, in danger of her ego exploding), he believed her.

“The Drop Spot game,” Nate said, obscurely, as they walked over the chaos they had caused in the police station and out to the sidestreet.  “No need to cheat it as it’s a fairly impossible game to start with.  But you can cheat it, if you place four of the circles, and ask the player to place the last one on their own.”

“How does that apply to all of this?” Eliot really wanted to know, and he really wanted to know why he hadn’t killed anyone when all he could see whenever he closed his eyes was the face of that dead child.

“Moreau placed us,” Nate said, simply.  “Didn’t you think it was all weirdly coincidental? From the rats to Lucille’s seat placed so only you could drive, Eliot, Moreau was trying to force the game.  He was trying to cheat, by placing the four circles-“ he indicated himself, Sophie, Parker and Hardison “-and letting you be the last circle, to place yourself exactly where he wanted you – in police custody.  I imagine he used to get great satisfaction from having his marks executed on public property.”

“He did,” Eliot said, feeling a little dizzy.

“With a Drop Spot game, usually a carnie would move one of the four circles at the last moment with their thumb,” Nate said.  “Rendering the game impossible to win.”

“And that’s what we did,” Parker said, gleefully.

“Moved me with your thumb?” Eliot said.

“Moved your cell number with my thumb,” Parker said.  “Actually, I tacked on a new cell number for while Moreau was there so he would give the termination people the wrong number.  I take it you got my note.”

Eliot had.  “I banged on the door like it told me to,” he said.  At the time, pulling the note from the grill, he had thought it could do nothing, just banging the door, indulging one last crazy wish from Parker.  “I guess it knocked the new number off?”

“Bingo.”

“And your acting job?” Eliot directed to Sophie.

“Fake,” Sophie said, grouching.  “It’s okay, I never wanted to work with Frakes anyway.”

“That’s the worst lie you’ve ever told,” Eliot said, and then rubbed her shoulder comfortingly.  “I’m sorry.”

Sophie smiled her gratitude at him.

“The child you hit in the tunnel was long dead,” Nate said, looking ahead as he walked.  “Sophie and I researched it while we were hiding in the airport.  I didn’t have a clue how far Moreau’s network was, we couldn’t risk making it look like I’d cottoned to all the coincidences and the fact the body of the child was much too cold.  Believe me, I’ve held the body of a child recently dead and that wasn’t it.”  Sophie leant across to squeeze Nate’s hand.  “Sophie double checked her gig was fake.  It was obvious he’s been using new people, or Hardison would have seen Moreau coming, so we watched the net and waited for Moreau’s kill order to come through. ”

“We took the gig, signed up to be part of the team,” Sophie said, with a small giggle.  “Moreau really wanted you dead, it was a tidy sum-“

“-which we’ve already wired to the parents of the dead child,” Nate said.  “It should be hitting the news any time now about the real identity of the child.  Who died two days ago.”

The knot in Eliot’s stomach loosened a little on hearing that.

“We didn’t know Nate and Sophie took the job, though,” Parker said.  “They just showed up.  Nate does that a lot."

“I trusted you two to have things sorted,” Nate said, although Eliot sort of doubted it – had Parker and Hardison’s plan not worked, the only way Nate could have guaranteed Eliot’s safety was by being part of the termination team himself, which was what had occurred.   Parker and Hardison had just made Moreau’s demise quicker, and more dramatic.  Eliot somewhat approved.

“And why’s Hardison dressed as a chauffeur?” Eliot glanced sideways at Hardison.  “You look ridiculous.”

“Well, Parker said I look great in uniform,” Hardison retorted, tipping his hat at Eliot and grinning at Parker.  She grinned back.

“And the rats in the apartment are still real,” Sophie said, in distaste.  “Moreau’s flair for the dramatic is- was worse than yours, Nate.”

Nate levelled a disgusted look at her, but he grinned, which ruined the effect.

“It’s okay, we stole the fourth floor of the Mandarin,” Parker said.  “C’mon, I’ll show you.”  She linked arms with Sophie and upped her pace.  Eliot fell back in pace with Nate, and the two watched the other three speed off towards the hotel, Sophie subtly guiding Hardison along with them with a careful touch.  Nate had obviously already asked her to give him and Eliot a moment.

“You’re not the monster you think you are,” Nate said, eyes straightforward as they walked at a more sedate pace to the hotel.

“You don’t know everything that I’ve done,” Eliot responded, as coolly as if they were discussing the weather.  Eliot paused, trying to find a diplomatic way to phrase it, but he wasn’t that much of a diplomat, so it came out somewhat awkwardly.  “Your voice is very distinctive, Nate.”

Nate stopped still, as if he was surveying the landscape, but Eliot noticed the tautness of his face, the pulse at his jaw, and the knot in Eliot’s stomach tightened again.

“Moreau needed to be stopped,” Eliot said.  “Thank you for not making me do it, because I would have had to.  But you didn’t have to be the one to pull the trigger.”

Nate swallowed, and when he looked at Eliot, there was no emotion in his face.  “Yes I did.”

Eliot opened his mouth to protest.

“Eliot,” Nate said, more firmly, “I won’t ask anyone in my crew to do something I am not willing to do myself.”

Nate didn’t elaborate.  Eliot didn’t need him to.  The events leading up to them finally cornering Moreau in San Lorenzo span between them, the echo of a hundred gun shots their muted memory soundtrack.  Eliot thought of a thousand things to say, every single one of them stupid.  He settled on a nod, which Nate returned.

“Come on,” Nate said eventually.  “If we don’t stop her, Parker will steal the whole hotel.  Including the restaurant.”

Eliot squinted.  “I’m famished.  Is that a bad thing?”

Nate looked at Eliot as if he was insane.  “She always forgets to steal the chefs too.  And I don’t know if you remember the last time she stole a kitchen-“

“Deep fried cheerios,” Eliot said, and shuddered.

Nate patted him manfully on the back.  Eliot told him, of course, how very close to death he had come by doing that.  Nate rolled his eyes and strode off.  Eliot paused and watched for a moment.  Hardison, Parker and Sophie were hanging around the door, waiting for them, and he watched as Nate joined them, and how they looked together.  He thought when he was in his jail cell that they would be happy without him, but now – with all of them gesturing him over impatiently – he knew he was wrong.  He belonged with them now. 

“All right, all right,” he told them, moving to join them, “I’m coming.  Stop being so impatient.”

Moreau had a claim on his past, but these guys had a claim on his future, and only one of those was something Eliot could change.   It might not be enough to settle Eliot’s karmic debt, but it was a start, and it was more than Moreau ever had.  Moreau was right about the darkness in him, but Moreau had made a huge mistake in his plan – Moreau had missed the light that was in him too, the light that was there because of Nate, Sophie, Hardison and Parker.  That mistake had killed Moreau.  Eliot wouldn’t make that mistake.

“All right, let’s go steal the k-“ Parker started.

“The swimming pool!” Hardison broke in with a panicked look, locking gazes with Eliot, an exaggerated panicked look on his face.  “Yeah, Eliot’s gotta lay low for a while, can’t lay low in a room full of...”

“Shiny reflective surfaces,” Sophie improvised.

“Oh, yeah,” Parker said.  “Let’s go steal the sw-“

“That’s _my_ line,” Nate said, grumpily.

“Let’s just get inside,” Sophie said.

“Let’s go steal the outside,” Parker suggested.  Hardison hit himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand.  Nate winced.  Sophie sighed.

“Let’s go steal a vending machine, I could do with some salty snacks,” Eliot said.  Nate looked at him with a betrayed expression, like he expected better, but Nate also couldn’t hold the grin from his face, and Eliot couldn’t help matching that grin.

“You heard the man,” Nate said.  “Let’s go steal a ridiculously heavy piece of machinery for about $80 worth of bad snacks.”

Sometimes, Eliot reflected as they pushed through the revolving doors into the hotel, not often, but sometimes, he could definitely understand _why_ someone like Moreau would mistake them for idiots...

# The end #


End file.
